Silver Spitters
by Cranky Crocus
Summary: Oneshot Susan/Morag story. Morag catches Susan working in the greenhouse and gets an earful of Herbology. Later in the library Morag gets a note that convinces her to get outside. The rest of the day is enjoyed in the sunshine or shade .


Morag grinned. This was becoming increasingly familiar, which made the situation all the more peculiar. She would walk into a room to find Susan Bones of Hufflepuff doing something completely unexpected and—until explained—completely unexplainable. For everything that Susan had attempted that had seemed—to Morag—unexplainable had actually had a perfectly suitable explanation. That wasn't to say, for a Ravenclaw mind, that the explanations were perfectly _reasonable_.

They weren't.

But she was getting ahead of herself. Normally, after walking into the room and seeing the odd sights she now came to expect, she would ask a question. That question would bring about the explanation to the unexplainable circumstances.

"Susan Bones, what in Merlin's left pinky are you doing?" inquired Morag from where she stood leaning against the doorway.

Susan looked up and brushed strands of red hair out from the front of her safety glasses. There was a perplexed look writ upon the girl's delicate and soft features.

"I'm scarifying a Spitting Silver seed," she replied as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be doing on a crisp and excellent Saturday afternoon.

"Named because they…spit silver?" the new arrival attempted to clarify. Susan Bones looked over and nodded.

"When they're older their roots can dig far and wide to find sources of silver, and at blooming time each year the spit it out. Naturally, there is a dazzling display. Wizards and witches have often strategically placed buckets certain distances from the plants—it's easy to judge how far the silver will go from the height of the plant at bloom—and collect the silver. In nature, the Spitting Silvers shoot their silver in hopes to capture the attention of large mineral-loving insects."

Morag attempted to take this all in but found her brain growing increasingly fuzzy. Though she had a fully capable Ravenclaw brain, Herbology had always evaded her not-so-valiant attempts at triumph. They all ended in complete misery. Or they had, until Morag had met this Herbology genius. She was only a small step behind Neville Longbottom, the Gryffindor.

At last Morag MacDougal decided to call on her Ravenclaw wit as her last defense.

"I suppose you're not wearing those glasses for future insect infestations," she drawled with only a mere hint of confusion. "You mentioned they spit at bloom. Why are you wearing safety glasses when I see no flowers?"

Susan looked up from the cutting board she was working on and put her tweezers down. A drop of silver shot into the air when the seedling was no longer being covered by her fingers—gloved, Morag now noted.

"They start practicing as seedlings. Those with the best aim shoot the silver right above them and have it splash down right beside them. As the seeds grow, they will be able to use that silver to assist in their maturation. Thus, they become stronger faster than the others. They get to reproduce first. All nature's unique way of picking the best of the best.

"They stop spitting as their photosynthetic tissue—green areas—grow through the year. They only spit as seedlings and as their flowers bloom. When they are fertilized, insects end up catching up the silver over the rims of the flowers and pressing it into the plant's pistil—female parts—later producing small silver fruit and little silver-filled seeds. It's most interesting that the stamens—male parts—seem to produce the silver from the stores the plant finds in whatever nearby locations."

"That's all very interesting," said Morag as her brain caught up from its previous state of reeling and careening around the room. "But how does the silver stay liquid?"

"Well, that's the mystery of it, isn't it?" Susan responded at last, her eyes glinting over her little project. She seemed very proud that her friend had picked up on such an important detail. "It seems to be their true magical essence. It is quite an amazing feat. We've tracked temperatures, and they don't even survive in climates where the temperature is high enough to melt silver. They seem to do it themselves when they are in the vicinity."

"That would make them a rare plant, correct?" Morag watched the little fellow spit up another droplet of silver, which fell way off to its right. It wouldn't have been a very tall plant its first year, certainly. Its accuracy was much too far off. "I mean, we don't have an abundance of liquid silver anyway so they can't be invasive…"

"Quite right!" The redhead fair beamed. "They're a very rare plant indeed. They grow in reasonably small patches—a few plants together working as a team—and the patches are spread out very far, sometimes quite hidden. As one would imagine, it is a very competitive way to live, living off silver."

Morag nodded. She remembered when she had been unnerved and quite unsettled during these Herbology sessions with Susan. It had taken ages for Morag to get the prejudice out of her head—she had, like the majority of Ravenclaws, pinned Hufflepuffs for idiots. Often times they didn't have the wit that Ravenclaws treasured. It didn't go to mean, as she had quickly learned, that they were all bumbling morons. They were much more capable than Gryffindors, at least.

Susan was adept with Herbology. Morag had come to accept that fact. It was of great assistance to her, in actuality, given her incapacity with the subject. Instead, the Ravenclaw helped her friend with other subjects—Charms and Transfiguration high on the list.

The dark-haired Ravenclaw was offered a seat as well as a pair of gloves and safety goggles.

"So what are you doing with them again?"

Susan rolled her eyes and reached for the tray of fresh soil mix. With a frown, she tossed the old seed into a little red bucket and placed a cap over it.

"Scarifying them. I take them out of this acid here with the tweezers"—she did so—"and place it on the board."

She quickly held the seed with one pair of tweezers and used the other to scratch lightly at its surface, careful not to burst it or cause it irreparable harm. She stuck her finger into the soil mix next to her and, before it could spit silver, gingerly placed it in the little indent.

That finished, she looked over to Morag. "After they're done spitting we can cover them up, since they'll have something to reach out for after their radicle—first, primordial root—is done growing. We scarify them so they can take up water and, more importantly, silver with greater ease."

Morag stared on and blinked, stretching to lean against the greenhouse table.

"Are you sure you're a Hufflepuff?"

Susan bones gave her a surprisingly stern look for all of a second and then broke out into her characteristic warm smile.

"I'm not sure, are you positive that you're a Ravenclaw?"

The female blushed but grinned all the same. "Exceedingly. I can almost hear Rowena singing for me to get out into the sky and fly to the nearest library just to get out of this greenhouse."

Susan giggled as she moved onto the next seed.

"And here is Helga singing her joy of the earthly world through a spitting plant."

"Oh, yes," Morag countered, "I can picture that.

_This earth is cool between my fingers_

_Look at how the silver lingers._

_Please don't leave, though it stings_

_Always better when Head of House sings._

_(There now, think of all those silver rings.)_"

"Did you think of that off the top of your head?" Susan questioned. She was onto her sixth seed. It appeared she only had plans of doing six, although there were five more in the clear container of acid.

Morag shrugged a shoulder and nodded. She chuckled at the song she had just sung, nippy and in a caricature of a lilting soprano voice.

"Very nice. I'll get back to you with Rowena's. I'm not nearly as clever as you, Morag."

The female flinched at her name. "We really need to get me a nickname."

"How about Mac?" Susan asked absentmindedly as she hurried about cleaning up the different parts and objects of the greenhouse she had used. She was very careful when she moved the tray nearer to a window. She didn't want to accidentally move the tray out of the line of one of the little seed's shots, Morag guessed. The plump girl turned and smiled almost apologetically. "Normally, nicknames come around best when they're not the topic of discussion."

The Ravenclaw had been thinking the nickname over since Susan had mentioned it. When Bones had finished speaking once more, Morag nodded her head jerkily, accepting the nickname.

"Mac it is."

"Very good. Mac, we need to get going."

"Why is that?"

"You wouldn't embarrass a Hufflepuff so. Don't you dare make me say it."

Morag smirked, thinking she was catching on. "I have to make you say it."

"I'm sick of being in the greenhouse," she replied with a pout. "Happy now? Let's scram."

Later Morag sat in the library scribbling words onto a parchment with her colorful Paradise bird feather quill. She was once more writing about Muggles and their not-so-interesting world. If she got it done now, though, it would be off her tail until Thursday. It wasn't a terribly hard essay anyway. She had finished eight out of ten inches by checking only two books.

Comparing and contrasting TVs and Microwaves was not, apparently, overly trying. She nibbled on the very tip of her quill as she thought of how to phrase the introduction to her next paragraph.

A paper was slipped just beneath her parchment. She glanced up to see a sturdy redhead walking away to another table. Morag opened the paper.

_Mac,_

_I said I would. Here goes._

_This air is wispy through my hair_

_But leave the library, wouldn't dare._

_This book could end with sudden flare_

_With pages turning everywhere._

_Never need to stray from ink_

_Or put a pause to what I think,_

_For all my words will never sink_

_Beyond the earth's most foul stink._

_But here my window beckons me;_

_I have no choice but walk to thee._

_There she stands with arms out free,_

_Waiting with patience for me to see._

_At last I leave my high abode_

_To venture down with paper load._

_She hugs me as she says her ode_

_And tells my books to hit the road._

_Helga, sweet, you called me down_

_Now help me lift this imprudent frown._

_For though I hope not join kin with clown,_

_I longed to leave words and drift to town._

_Take my hand and lead me now_

_To ease my mind and smooth my brow._

_Don't spare me any heartfelt vow_

_As you pull me where I allow._

_(How is this for balanced tao?)_

_Signed,_

_Helga and Susan (Giggle)_

Morag folded up the parchment once more and looked up to where Susan had trod off. The Hufflepuff was there no longer. The studious female cocked a brow and strode to the window on a hunch.

Down by the pond, watching the giant squid and apparently singing a song, was Susan Bones. Morag took a look at her school belongings and then glanced back down to the waters and content students, focusing in on the redhead. She was near a group of Hufflepuffs—the pigtailed blonde, Hannah Abbot, was speaking excitedly—but the redhead was far enough away that she seemed relatively alone.

The girl decided to pack up and, at the least, move her studies outside. She had the third book for her paper—she could return the other two and lighten her load. Two more inches on a parchment was hardly a big deal.

Susan smiled up at her when she stepped out into the sun. It was reasonably blinding.

"I finally got the raven out of her cage," Susan remarked with mirthful eyes and a pleased tone. "Fancy that!"

"Yeah, yeah," Morag responded uselessly. "Mind if I scoot off to the shade?"

Susan shook her head. The Ravenclaw sat a few feet to the right in the shade of one of the large willows—the non-whomping variety. The redhead joined her.

"What are you working on?" she inquired, slightly interested. It was an achievement to catch a Hufflepuff's interest with the academics. Morag shushed her thoughts—_this_ Hufflepuff. No generalizations.

"Muggle studies. TVs and Microwaves."

Susan frowned. "Are those the things that track the weather?"

Morag couldn't help it. She laughed. Susan turned red, but continued smiling sheepishly.

"Go on, teach me," the Hufflepuff goaded.

For the next hour, Morag did. With many analogies and guided imagery exercises, Susan gained understanding of the two seemingly useless objects. The microwave was hardest—who thought of putting food into an electrical box and sending waves through it? Bones had continued to think they were water waves, like those in the ocean. She had pointed out that electricity and water didn't seem to go well together, or so she had heard.

But finally Susan understood. They sat quietly together on their stomachs over the book on Muggles, staring right over it to the rippling lake and contentedly playing cephalopod. Fred and George had given it enlarged rubber duckies to bat around. Morag wished she could make such a statement of the use for Muggle objects.

"Hey Susan?"

"Mmm?"

"What do _you_ think of the name Morag?"

It was silent for a moment, at least in their little section of grass. Susan chewed on her lip. She repeated the name a few times in a breezy whisper.

"I like it."

Morag nodded and her face took on a smile. "You can call me Morag, if you want. It really doesn't sound so bad coming from you."

Susan gazed over and opened her bright eyes wide. The two of them laughed and smiled. After a moment the Bones girl sighed and rested her head against Morag's upraised shoulder. Morag let her head fall gently against her friend's head.

"Susan and Morag. S & M," the dark-haired female remarked with an eager grin. The two started laughing all over it.

They couldn't help it. After a non-school day filled with learning and teaching, the most amusing things were the least mature. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw united by chain. Thick chain, apparently, and tied to halters…

The two laughed more at the image. The giant squid threw one of the duckies into the air and caught it with another tentacle. Morag's work sat unfinished beside her. Susan's work sat growing in the greenhouse as she rested in the glory of her completion.

What a perfect, explainable combination of circumstances.


End file.
